March 1, 2010

 

Pages torn from holy texts

drift in the strict winter dark.

 

Twelve more snowstorms and spring

arrives in a hustle of flowers,

 

like a funeral. You agree

that the erudite parts of me

 

will soon expunge themselves, sloughing

like the shells of cicadas.

 

You agree that I’ll imitate

those apple-cheeked old men

 

who love to tease the young girls

who ache like microwave ovens.

 

You even agree that my name

will soon be misspelled frequently

 

all over the Internet as men

young enough to know better

 

scour for the best free porn sites.

Was it you who tore the pages

 

from the holy texts and scattered

their miscellany to the wind?

 

All those gods confused as clouds

obscure the stars they inhabit.

 

Couldn’t you save a place for them

in the nursing home of your heart?

 

I know these senile metaphors

disgust you. I know that layers

 

of snow, when they thaw, will expose

the bones of cannibal banquets             

 

we both attended. You agree

that in the dark the pages

 

of scripture and secular texts

mate with reckless abandon,

 

and yet new snow will pulp them all

in a slush of gray elision.

Confetti
Danna Ray
Acrylic on wood

Confetti
Danna Ray
Acrylic on wood